The clang of my needle echoed through the Chorale Chambers, a sound that had become as familiar as my own breathing. I'd been weaving through the citadel for hours, and yet a peculiar itch told me I was missing something crucial. That's when I caught a glimpse of a vine-choked opening high above the eastern corridor. It was the kind of hidden passage that veteran wanderers learn to sense, a whisper of uncharted depths. I knew immediately that this was the entrance to the Putrified Ducts, a region spoken of in hushed tones by the few travelers who had dared to explore it. But the way was barred by more than just vegetation; it demanded a leap beyond ordinary means.
I was missing the Faydown Cloak, that masterful creation that bestows the gift of double jump. Without it, that tantalizing threshold might as well have been a painted wall. I turned back, a familiar frustration gnawing at me, but I knew the pilgrimage. Ascending Mount Fay had been a brutal trial of razor-sharp winds and gravity-defying platforms, but now, with the cloak billowing behind me, I felt unstoppable. I returned to the Chorale Chambers, my heart pounding with renewed purpose, and finally shattered the vines that guarded the Memorium. The moment my feet touched the dusty floor of that forgotten hall, I knew my journey had genuinely begun. I rested briefly at a nearby bench, letting its faint melody soothe my nerves, then pressed onward.
Breaking through a crumbling wall to my right, I was greeted by a hulking guardian, its carapace oozing a sickly slime. I vaulted over its sluggish swipes and pressed deeper until I stumbled upon a breathtaking diorama of the citadel itself. A strange vendor offered me a map for 70 rosaries, a sum I gladly parted with, for knowledge in these labyrinthine depths is survival. But the map revealed only blank spaces ahead. Frustration welled until I noticed something peculiar: a pair of frayed curtains, barely stirring in a phantom breeze, draped across the ceiling's far corner. With a surge of intuition, I coiled my legs and launched upward with the cloak’s second burst—right into the hidden balcony behind them. I had found the secret entrance to the Putrified Ducts, a realm that would test every skill I possessed.
The air inside was thick with decay and the metallic tang of ancient rust. I stood in a vast chamber choked with peril—spinning gears, dripping muck, and the ever-present threat of crumbling platforms. My first goal was survival. I crept along the walls, pausing only to slash at the bloated insects that erupted from the pipes. Soon I spotted salvation: a Bellway station and a bench, but the carved toll demanded 80 and 60 rosaries respectively. It felt like a tax on hope itself, yet I paid without hesitation, carving a small sanctuary into this industrial nightmare. From there, I dropped into the lower corridors and let a grotesque vine monster seize me, its tendrils hoisting me to an upper level where a more complete map of the ducts awaited, its parchment almost disintegrating to the touch.
With the layout now clear, two priorities crystallized in my mind. First, the Huntress, a weathered warrior holed up in a makeshift home at the bottom of the central shaft. Her voice cracked with desperation as she spoke of the Longclaw tool, a weapon capable of tearing through the fungal barriers I’d been helpless against. She gave me a quest to earn it, and I vowed to return with trophies. Right beside her, a frail bench allowed me to rest, but I couldn't linger. The second, more urgent target was the Apostate Key. I retraced my steps, scaling the leftmost heights of the enormous vertical chamber, my double jump propelling me past bursts of toxic vapor. There, nestled in a alcove that seemed to reject the light, lay the key. It was cold to the touch, humming with energies that promised to unlock sealed doors in the Slab, a place I had been obstructed from before.
My exploration didn't end there. The Putrified Ducts concealed a community of the bizarre: Fleatopia. In the region labeled Pale Lake, I found the final destination of the Flea Caravan. I had already been gathering the little skittering critters throughout my travels, and now I understood why. After returning twenty fleas, the nomadic troupe would migrate to this very spot. The promise of the Flea Games and rare rewards spurred me to scour every hidden corner. And to ensure I found every last flea, I sought out Vog, a shady map vendor perched in the uppermost reaches of the ducts. For a few rosaries, he sold me maps that pinpointed the locations of lost fleas—an act that felt nearly like cheating, but in a world this punishing, I'd take any edge.
But the true surprises were the treasures hidden off the beaten path. Above the central chamber, behind a spiderweb of corroded machinery, I discovered the Wreath of Purity.
